


Found Amidst Smoke and Salt

by Militem (ava_militem)



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Body Horror, Depression, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Major Character Injury, Melancholy, Pain, Rehabilitation, Scars, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt, fluff at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_militem/pseuds/Militem
Summary: After Arthur Maxson loses everything, he struggles with his own survival.I wanted to attempt a rare pair and decided to go for the hardest I could think of. This idea came to me swiftly and suddenly and I hope you enjoy the story eventually. The beginning is quite dark, please read tags.





	Found Amidst Smoke and Salt

**Author's Note:**

> Again, please read the tags before the story. I might be half-mad for writing this.

The day his world ended begun as any other; he had woken early, exercised, showered and dressed, before grabbing his morning coffee and breakfast and returning to his quarters. Sunshine had just started pouring over the airport when he went to the forecastle to observe the start of the daily bustle below. He remembered blowing the steam away from his coffee gently before taking a sip.

The moment of time between his last gulp of coffee and reaching the door was forever burned into his mind. There was a faint chorus of blasts in the distance, followed by a resounding crash and explosion that shook his entire being. Fire in the sky, ash in his mouth, the impossibly slow turn of the world as the Prydwen began falling from the sky. He had gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white before he fell alongside the Prydwen, both burning. His final memory as Elder Maxson had been the smell of chemical ash and charred flesh mixed with the saltiness of the ocean breeze before he hit the water.

He should have died; he wished he had.

Danse had found his almost lifeless body on the shore, his coat gone and flight suit burnt onto his skin, so black the ex-paladin wasn’t sure where his burns ended and his suit began. Had it not been for a wheezing breath he took, Danse said he would never have found him amongst the charred wreckage.

His following memories were pain and agony as he had never experienced before. He had been unconscious for two weeks before waking into a world of medication-dulled pain and warped vision. The left side of his body still aflame, the right side numb. When he had tried to move, the searing pain turned everything white and forced him back into unconsciousness.

When he next awoke there was a woman standing over him, a soft halo of light surrounding her. An angel, he thought, come to take him to whatever life was beyond. He tried to smile, the small movement too much, causing him to wince. She had shushed him, her hand warm against his cheek before he slipped off again into oblivion.

Arthur Maxson was not swept away in the arms of an angel, he was left to suffer amongst the living. Danse had been the one to inform him that the entire left side of his body was severely burned, irreparably scarred, that Curie had saved his left arm and that after extensive rehab he might be able to use his hand again. Curie had to amputate his left leg just below the hip; an infection had spread too far, too fast. The ex-paladin had continued speaking but Arthur had stopped listening, his thoughts of revenge pounding in his ears.

Walker had done this.

Knight Reggie Walker, also known as General Walker to the Minutemen and Fixer to the Railroad, had come to see the Brotherhood of Steel as a threat to long-term peace and decided to remove them from the Commonwealth using his artillery. He had been a promising soldier, but the Elder chose to ignore the signs, the parallels between them. Both men were ambitious, driven, but Reggie had more experience than Arthur and used it to pull together the Minutemen, strengthen them, used them to bring about a new future by defeating the Brotherhood of Steel and the Institute.

Arthur told Danse we wanted revenge only to learned that Reggie had never returned from the Institute, that he had chosen to stay behind, to end his life beside his son’s in atomic fire. At the news of Walker's death, something inside Arthur died too.

He stopped talking to Danse after that, he was angry Danse had pulled him from the ocean and dragged his body back to the Castle. Mad that he didn’t kill him out of mercy when Curie informed him of how extensive his injuries were and that it would be a miracle if he survived. Mad he had survived at all. Mad he didn't kill him in the bunker! Why was he even at the Castle at all?

Preston Garvey has been the one to tell him Danse was now the General of the Minutemen, taking the mantle as a final request from Walker. When Arthur had asked how they could let a synth lead them, Garvey reply was simple.

“He does his job wholeheartedly and better than anyone else. Why does it matter if he was born or made? His heart and soul are in the right place.”

Arthur had frowned and turned his head away after that, refusing to speak to Garvey thereafter too.

 

There was nothing left for him. The life he had grown into and built as his own was gone. He’d lost everything he held dear. Hundreds had died because he failed to see Walker for the fanatic he was. His family was gone; Kells, Ingram, Cade, Quinlan, Teagan. Squires, Knights, Scribes. The list of names was too long, yet one name was not amongst them. His own.

Danse had walked in on him the first time he tried to take his own life, grabbed the knife out of his hand just before he could slide it across his own throat. After that, the ex-paladin refused to leave him alone. When he wasn’t present, Curie or Garvey was. 

He preferred Curie's company, even though she was a synth. She took care of him, cut his food, helped him drink, bathed him. She hummed quietly when they were together, the melody soothing. Preston and Danse made him work, tried to get him to walk, eat on his own, use his maimed left hand. Danse and Garvey had gotten into an argument after Arthur had thrown his soup at Preston. He was pretending to sleep the night he saw them kiss.

His anger turned to self-loathing, his regrets to sorrow, his grief to misery. He snapped at everyone, refused to get out of bed, to bath, to eat, to live. The only one he let near him was Curie, and only because she gave him the small doses of modified Med-X to take away the pain. A pain he knew didn't physically encumber him anymore, a drug that only served to dull his world and offer an hour or so of blissful oblivion before he was thrown back into reality and made to wait for the next escape.

Curie caught on much sooner than he thought and Danse had come to him.

“What happened to the Arthur Maxson who lead an army into the Commonwealth?”

“He died.”

“Yet here you remain. A shell. Surrounded by people trying to help you, trying to give you new purpose. Well, I’m not going to stand back and watch you wither away any longer. Your meals and water will be placed on that table over there. Get them yourself.”

“It hurts too much to move.”

“Curie is a trained doctor and will only administer your painkillers to _help_ in your recovery, not to feed your addiction and melancholy.

“The choice is yours, Arthur. Get up and live, or lay here and die.”

Danse left. Arthur slept through the first day and a half, his back to the world as his body shook from false cold and ached for the drug he was now refused. Curie watched him the whole time, a look of pain and worry on her pretty face. He could see the lines caused by sleepless nights etched on her young face, her green eyes full of worry.

Danse and Garvey had abandoned him. They didn’t care, so why should he? Why did she?

By the third day, Arthur was parched, his mouth and body dry, his stomach growling constantly, but he still refused to leave his bed. As the sun began to set he heard a sob and the scuff of a chair against the cement floor. When he turned over Curie was gone.

She’d left him too.

No. She couldn’t watch him die, not after the countless times she had saved him. Cade had once said that each time he saved a life, a small piece of his soul became a part of the other person, and if they died a part of him died with them.

How much of her would die if he did? He decided he didn’t want to find out.

Arthur tried to sit, so weak that his whole body shook with the effort. When he moved to swing his leg over the side of the bed he fell, his arms too weak to break his fall and his skull collided with the floor with a loud crack. He felt his blood run down his face into his blind, left eye. He was ready to give up, to die on the floor.

No!

If Death refused him a glorious end in combat, he now refused to die a coward on the floor of the clinic he had been in for nearly five months. He pulled himself towards the table, a seemingly impossible distance away. Each pull was true agony, his unused muscles screamed with effort, his heart beat impossibly fast with the strain from dehydration and work, yet he persevered.

When he reached the table, he pushed himself to sit on the floor and grabbed the can of purified water. Thankfully the can was open and he gulped water down so fast he choked, sputtering half the contents onto his now long-grown beard and bare chest. He almost threw up what water he managed to drink, his chest heaved as his head spun. After his stomach settled, he grabbed the small razorgrain roll and bit into it savagely, tearing a chunk off and savoring the taste. It was the first food that didn’t taste like ash in four months. He washed the bite down with another gulp of water, followed by another bite.

He ate most of the food, his first real meal in months, and felt sick. Closing his eyes, he fell asleep where he lay. When he opened them, he was still on the floor, but Danse and Curie stood over him, both smiling widely.

“Welcome back, Arthur,” Danse said pridefully.

Curie crouched down and hugged him, planting a small kiss on his cheek that made his skin tingle.

 

The following weeks were not easy, his now delayed recovery was the hardest work he had ever done in his entire life. Arthur’s once strong body had withered away, his reflection was one he didn’t recognize. The left side of his face and body was scared, his left ear and eye were gone, his cheeks gaunt, and his appearance wretched. The right half of his face was the handsome side now. His beard and hair had grown too long, but he refused to let anyone help him shave, he needed to do it himself, was determined to.

Curie assisted him throughout his rehabilitation, fitted him with a prosthetic leg, caught him when he fell. Two weeks of intense rehabilitation saw him picking up a razor and removing the beard he’d sported for years. Half of the beard was permanently gone now anyways. Two months found him taking his first step without Curie or crutches, and Danse promised him a modified suit of power armor if he could strengthen the grip on his left hand enough to work the suit’s controls.

All the while, Curie remained at his side, encouraging him, pushing him when he said he couldn’t. His dependence on others had been replaced by a determination to relearn to walk, to relearn to use his body.

“Nothing is impossible, Arthur.”

He liked the way she said his name but hated how she always took a step farther away during his rehab. She always took one step back, making him take one more step forwards with a grumble. Until the day he stopped complaining and took the final step himself and took her into his arms. His heart rate quickened for an entirely different purpose when she smiled at him. Her beautiful smile.

A month later he was stepping into his own suit of modified T-51C, his left hand finally able to consistently obey his commands. Arthur took a few tentative steps forwards before the drilled in routine of years past returned and he was walking and running with ease. Danse looked like a proud father, filling Arthur with a feeling he had not felt in over a year: joy. He left Danse in search of Curie and found her in the clinic. Her eyes watered with happiness when she stepped towards him and threw her arms around his armored torso.

“You ‘ave come so far, mon ami,” she said, looking into his good eye, “I am so proud of you.”

He felt that tightness in his chest again when she smiled at him and leaned closer. Her lips met his and he leaned into the kiss before breaking away. Arthur felt suddenly unworthy; his scars, his maimed body, his past life spent hating her simply because of what she was.

“Arthur?” she reached up and place her hand on the left side of his face, the one marred by burns, that was both constantly painful and numb. He turned away from her.

“I’m hideous, an abomination.”

She took his hand and turned him.

“No, you are simply a man, a handsome one, a better one now than before,” she said, the truth of her words bringing Arthur to tears.

“I promise to be a better person.”

As Elder Maxson, he had been a terror upon the Commonwealth, merciless towards nonhumans, slaughtering innocent synths and ghouls in the name of humanity. That man had died a year ago in the burning wreckage of the Prydwen and reborn from the ashes was Arthur, the broken man made whole. His new purpose was to make amends for his past mistakes and help his friends build a better Commonwealth for the future of all; human, ghouls, and synth.

 

* * *

 

Three years past the day his world turned upside-down, Arthur stood outside the Starlight Medical Clinic with a bouquet of wildflowers behind his back. He nodded at a pair of militiamen as they left the clinic, the soldiers muttering ‘lieutenant’ as they passed. His stomach felt like it was slowly filling with stingwings, his skin sweaty despite the crisp, evening air.

Curie finally stepped through the door, turning to him and beaming, “Mon cheri! I thought you were on patrol?”

“I traded shifts with the General’s permission,” he handed her the bouquet after she locked the clinic door, “Happy Anniversary, mon ange.”

Curie’s eye’s lit up and she pressed her nose into the array of flowers, “Merci! I’m afraid I didn’t get you anything.”

Arthur pulled her close, “You’ve already given me plenty.”

He pulled her flush to him and tipped her over his arm, bringing his lips to hers and causing her to gasp. She smiled against his lips before slipping her tongue into his mouth, tasting him, their lips gliding over each other as they lost themselves in the embrace.

“Get a room, Sir!”

Arthur broke away and glared as best he could at the offending soldier, “I expect 100 push-ups for that remark, Jenkins.”

The private groaned and dropped to the ground. Curie giggled into Arthur’s strong chest, her cheeks pink.

“Come, I have something else for you.”

Arthur led her to the ancient screen located at the south end of the town, her laugh echoing off the walls and they raced up the stairs. When they reached to top she gasped. Strings of white lights hung from the railings along the top, illuminating a pathway towards a table set for two. Preston and Danse both waited at the other end, dressed in tuxedos. A large painting had been set up behind the men, an old village with a large, intricate metal structure looming over ancient homes.

“The Eiffel Tower? Arthur, quelle...?”

“You said once you wished you could have seen Paris, so I brought Paris to you.”

The bouquet fell from her hands as she spun to face Arthur, pressing her lips to his and taking his breath away. They broke apart, smiling, and made their way to the table. Arthur pulled out her chair before settling into his own seat across from her and taking her small hands into his.

Danse and Preston served them dinner, Yao Guai Ribs with tatoes and squash, paired with Deacon’s famous Mutfruit wine. There was even deathclaw egg creme brulee for dessert. At some point after dessert, Danse and Preston had slipped away leaving the pair alone under the stars, the sound of the radio playing faintly in the background.

Arthur stood, offering Curie his hand and taking her closer to the radio. They danced together as best they could given Arthur’s less-than-nimble prosthetic leg, for two songs, smiling, giggling, kissing.

When the third song ended Arthur stepped back and awkwardly lowered himself to one knee. His heart was pounding in his chest, he hadn’t felt this reckless in years. He reached into his pocket and dug out a ring, gold with small yet stunning diamonds inlaid into the band. Curie's hands flew to her mouth.

“Curie, you are one of the most intelligent and beautiful women I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Your compassion and kindness are boundless, your ability to help others unmatched. You’re the first person I think about in the morning and my last thought as I drift off to sleep.

“You helped me through the most difficult period of my life, pushed me to become the man I am now, convincing me to never give up. I can never, ever repay you, but I want to spend the rest of my life trying.

“I love you, Curie. Will you marry me?”

Curie was nodding through the tears streaming from her eyes, “Oui! Oui! My ‘eart feels like it will burst from my chest, oh Arthur, yes!”

“Yes?” Arthur asked foolishly, beginning to rise.

“Yes!”

Arthur leaped from his knees, grabbed Curie around her waist and spun her in a full circle before setting her down and taking her hand to slip the ring on her finger. He kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue entwining with hers. When she broke away from him, her sparkling emerald eyes me his sky blue.

“Oh, Arthur, you always speak as if I have given you so much, but you too have provided me with the desire to better myself. There is so much I would have never accomplished without your help. You fill me with such joy, I feel intoxicated, dizzy. I want to feel this way forever with you.”

“I love you!”

“And I you!”

 

~END~


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